Gypsy Eye, Wolf Eye
by 2AddersFanged
Summary: Claude Frollo abducts Esmeralda, and a power struggle ensues. Based loosely upon Victor Hugo’s characters from his novel Notre Dame de Paris.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a melodramatic romp using variations on Victor Hugo's characters from his novel "Notre Dame de Paris"._

_I've always wondered what would have happened to Archdeacon Claude Frollo had Esmeralda been more like that other famous gypsy in literature, Carmen (from Prosper Merimee's novella of the same name, and, to some extent, Bizet's subsequent opera). Carmen was savvy, rebellious, sensual, and very bold. While it certainly would have been advantageous to Frollo's sanity to fall in love with a braver, less conventional woman, in other ways he would have been in a lot more trouble had his little Esmeralda been like the formidable Carmen; the two of them probably would have ended up killing each other. Instead of the touching embrace between Quasimodo's and Esmeralda's skeletons at the end of the novel, we would have been presented with Frollo's and Esmeralda's skeletons, each with their hands at the other's throat. _

_Nevertheless, this story explores what might have happened if Esmeralda had actually "grown a pair" and behaved in a clever, self-preserving manner. Frollo also acts on his own here, out of the bounds of Victor Hugo's classic. It's __**not**__ my intention to reproduce the characters exactly as they appear in the novel (which I greatly admire). This is an exercise for my own amusement, and hopefully yours._

_The title of the story is an old Andalusian saying._

**Gypsy Eye, Wolf Eye**

I should have thought the mountains would  
be shaken in their foundations on the day  
when a woman would repulse such a love.  
—Victor Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris

**1. **

Claude Frollo looked at himself in a mirror. He studied his high cheekbones, firm mouth, sharp little teeth, and dark eyes. Was he ugly? She had told him so. Esmeralda, the woman who tormented his dreams and his waking thoughts, had told him, fearsome priest, that she found him ugly. She, in her turn, had fallen under the spell of a fatuous, soulless, military fool; a fool with clear blue eyes and blond hair.

Frollo smiled ruefully. He had weapons of persuasion in his bedchamber and study, the whip and the rope he sometimes used—alas, unsuccessfully—to drive away his obsession and his growing anger at the God who paraded the gypsy girl before him; he could, perhaps, use those weapons on _her_. The notion of applying his whip to her slender frame, to punish her for dominating his mind and heart was a tiny balm to his pride. He imagined the wounds his whip would make on her body. He tried to picture himself laughing, but instead saw himself kneeling over her prone figure, licking the blood off her back.

And it was still only morning. Many days before, he had first been scorched by the dancing vision outside his window. Before that, he had been free. But freedom no longer interested Claude Frollo. He wanted to be wholly bound to the gypsy girl; he wanted to bathe her, to dress her. He wanted her to belong to him as he already belonged to her, as he had never, he now realized, belonged to God.

He stepped out into the cold passage that led away from his bedchamber. Claude was a learned man, educated, among other things, in philosophy and the dark arts of alchemy. Could he not—if he were to be secretive, and utilize the knowledge granted him as Archdeacon—lure Esmeralda to his study for one night? Once he had her, he could make certain she did not escape. Of course, he could no longer rely on Quasimodo's help; the poor creature was besotted with the gypsy girl. Quasimodo, amazingly, would probably no longer allow Frollo to approach her.

He'd have to gag her, of course. The sound of her voice alone mastered him; she could manipulate him if she were allowed to speak. Frollo knew how cunning gypsies could be. He was thankful that Esmeralda was rather naïve; otherwise she could have made him her slave long ago. He shuddered to think of the degradations Esmeralda could subject him to, should she turn the slightest amount of curiosity towards him. She could own him—his learning, his God, his soul— with a word or a touch.

His rapid footsteps slowed in the echoing corridor. The idea of being touched by Esmeralda made him go cold and hot. Sometimes he imagined her standing in front of him, reaching out to stroke his face, his lips, down his chest, slightly lower still, making him grasp her hand for fear he would drown, or die. He'd try to say her name, could only gasp, but he wouldn't let go of her hand. These thoughts always made him groan, made electricity trail down his skin. He would feel his soul giving way, opening up to her.

On one particular evening, he had tormented himself all night with images of the gypsy girl teasing him, running her fingers over his cheek and under his chin, laughing at his reactions, caressing his neck and shoulders with her lips. Frollo cried out his love for her. In desperation, he threw himself out of bed and into his study, flung anything he could find—books, bottles—against the walls. He dressed and went into the Paris night to find her. Her little cottage stood empty and dark; for hours he crouched below the window, his foot bleeding. When she didn't arrive, he skulked back to the cathedral, wishing harm upon everyone he passed.


	2. Chapter 2

The unexamined life is not worth living.  
—Socrates

**2.**

He would do everything alone this time, take no cohorts. He concocted a simple plan that would cause the gypsy girl to seemingly disappear from Paris, with no obvious suspects. Claude Frollo reviewed his plan for two weeks, not listening when others spoke to him of church matters, so intent was he on getting every detail right for Esmeralda's abduction.

Claude Frollo knew of several slow-acting hypnotics which, after a few hours' time, caused unconsciousness. He chose the one that had the lightest scent and taste. To test the drug to ensure it had no harmful, long-lasting effects, he himself took a larger dose than the one he planned to give Esmeralda. For a few hours he felt nothing, but by dinnertime, his body began to rebel against his wishes, and while reading at his desk, he melted into a deep sleep. The next afternoon he awoke with nothing more than a headache.

In order to combat his own anxiety during the abduction—stress might affect his movements and make him more obvious—Frollo also experimented with various potions used to induce relaxation. The feeling of being under the influence of a sedative was new and troubling to him. Once he took a dose of laudanum and spent the day wandering about Notre Dame in a stupor, giggling at nothing. He attracted unwanted attention, so remained in his study the rest of the day, riveted by the vision of Esmeralda dancing beneath his window. He was frightened by his powerful, drugged reaction to her. While he watched her twirling in the square, a feeling of such infinite yearning overtook him that he nearly marched down and lead Esmeralda up to his study in view of the entire town. This drug, Frollo concluded, would not be ideal for his use during the abduction, but it could perhaps be used to interesting effect upon his captive.

On the appointed day, Frollo would watch Esmeralda dance as usual, but halfway through her performance—before she began to sing, god help him—he'd slip out of Notre Dame and hurry towards her cottage. It would be easy to break in; the doors on the cottage were rickety, its one window low to the ground. He had spied on Esmeralda in her house before; he knew that she always enjoyed a cup of wine after dancing. She poured the wine from a jug she kept on a table in the middle of the room. Frollo would spike the wine with the hypnotic, and then return to the cathedral. In the late afternoon, when the sun was just turning russet, he would venture back to her cottage, dispense of the rest of the tainted wine, and carry the slumbering girl to Notre Dame.

Claude Frollo had observed that people rarely question what they see with their own eyes. He would wear civilian clothes and a hooded layman's cape, and carry Esmeralda in a well-padded feed sack over his shoulder, without any great attempt to hide the burden from the few citizens likely to be out at dinner time. It would be safer to abduct her while the sun was just giving way to twilight, rather than in darkness; the sight of a hooded man carrying a large sack could raise suspicion if observed in the middle of the night. In late afternoon he would look to most people like a gentleman farmer returning home with a last-minute provision. One occasionally saw farmers driving their carts, full of grain, through the streets, or lone farmers carrying grain from the nearby mercantile. To test his theory, Frollo walked around Paris one afternoon, carrying a sack on his shoulder. No one gave him a second look

The most treacherous part of the endeavor would be removing Esmeralda without being seen by her folk in the gypsy camp. Luckily, he had discovered a rarely-used path through the woods that led to the back door of her cottage. The secrecy of this path was another good reason to set out while the sun was still in the sky. Gypsies were notoriously nocturnal; should he be discovered at night while roaming those hidden trails, he'd surely be accosted by the gypsy council.

The week before he was to execute his plan, Frollo walked the town in his layman's disguise, purchasing clothes, wine, and expensive candies for the gypsy. He knelt in his bedchamber on the evening before the appointed day and prayed for success. It thrilled him that Esmeralda would soon be so close, so touchable; yet when he pictured the golden time he would finally set her down in his study, he could not imagine what to say to her. His prayers echoed around the room. Horrified by what he was asking God to do, he rose abruptly and went to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

When one sets out upon an evil path, one should go the whole way.  
—Victor Hugo, _Notre Dame de Paris_

**3.**

Everything went as planned. Frollo was pleased at how easily he was able to execute the early stages of his plot. But when he returned to Esmeralda's house at sunset, his heart began to beat so violently he worried that the gypsies in the camp would hear it. His knees were weak, not as a result of his medication, for he had become accustomed to its effects; the idea of seeing Esmeralda alone in her cottage, unconscious and vulnerable, made him dizzy.

As he approached, her house was shadowed, and seemed to loom over him in the fading light. He crept toward the back door trying to step silently on the twigs underfoot. He had to remember to breathe. He could hear the laughter of gypsies in the camp; it sounded very close by. He pulled a poniard from his waistcoat and bent towards the doorknob, slipped the point of the knife into the space between the lock and the doorjamb. Turning the knob and working the blade up, he heard a metallic click, a victorious sound. He pushed the door open quickly, fearing that if he hesitated, he would never enter.

The room was unlit; in the gloaming light he perceived only a partly-filled cup next to the wine jug on Esmeralda's table. Frollo whirled around the room and caught sight of something on a makeshift bed in the corner. It was she. He stood there, no longer breathing, listening for sounds of movement. His heart beat so loudly he was sure it would awaken her. Suddenly his plan seemed impossibly daunting to him. Swaying, he forced himself to pad over to her. She lay on her side towards him; most of her face was covered with her black hair; she was clothed in her street-dancer's garb, full green skirt, sequined bodice, kid slippers on her tiny feet. She seemed unconscious, but to make sure, he touched her shoulder. The skin was warm, and he trembled. He shook her; there was no movement at all from the gypsy girl.

Frollo turned, picked up the wine jug and cup. He took them outside, walked a number of paces into the woods, dug up some leaves, poured the poisoned wine onto the ground, and then moved the leaves back over the spot with his foot. He wiped off the jug and cup, and returned them to their proper places in the cottage. He pulled the thick sack from his waist bag, punched a few holes in the top with his poniard. He moved over to Esmeralda, lifted her delicate feet and slipped them into the bag. He pulled the bag up over her face and fastened it, then bent down, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her. With one arm holding Esmeralda, he smoothed the bed with his other hand, to make it appear as if no one had lain there. He looked around the room to see the place with new eyes. Did it appear as if Esmeralda had not been there this afternoon? He decided he was ready. He slipped out the door and locked it behind him. Esmeralda was so light she hardly needed to be held in place. He felt a surge of masculine power; she was light as a prayer book. How was it that such a tiny creature could dominate his being so completely? The nearby laughter came again, and Frollo disappeared into the woods.

Walking at a casual pace and keeping his head up, Frollo crossed the Paris streets. He was intensely aware of all movement around him, and made sure that his hood concealed his features. His hand clasped Esmeralda high on the back of her thighs. He felt madness churning within him. His breath came faster as he approached Notre Dame; no one had seen him. He entered the passageway leading to the back staircase of the cathedral.

He unlocked the large wooden door of his study and pushed it open. He had lit several candles before he left. The flickering light seemed unfamiliar, lent the study the austere, voluptuous air of an odalisque's chamber. Frollo placed Esmeralda on a couch by the far wall. He unfastened the top of the sack and pulled it off her body. He then rushed to the door and locked it. He slipped the key into his shoe.

He stared at her, stroking his brow. He paced in front of the couch. It would be hours before she awoke. He was shaking.

He pulled a blanket from a large trunk. His legs were heavy as he crossed the room. He bent over and spread the blanket on top of her; he placed a pillow under her head. He knelt down beside her. He had rarely seen her face so close. Her eyelashes cast feathery shadows on her cheek; her mouth was pouted slightly. He trailed his hand over the top layer of her hair; it felt like fur.

"Gypsy girl," he said.

Frollo sat back on his heels and raised his head to the ceiling. It seemed very far away. He sighed, and his eyes closed. He swayed back and forth, listening in his head to music, to the song she always sang.


	4. Chapter 4

When will I love you?  
Good lord, I don't know,  
Maybe never, maybe tomorrow,  
But not today, that's certain.  
—Carmen, in Bizet's Opera

4.  
It was some time before Frollo stood up and began to prepare for Esmeralda's awakening. He paced before his desk; he still had little idea what to say to her. She would be angry and terrified, and he would need to soothe her as much as possible while still maintaining control of the situation. Frollo was accustomed to inspiring obedience and awe; with an imperious look or tone of voice, he could command anyone to perform any number of unpleasant tasks. But this girl, without knowing it, held an unprecedented power over him. If she were to speak to him softly, beg for her freedom with those mysterious eyes and that mermaid's voice…Frollo's heart fell. He had forgotten to gag her.

He rushed to the trunk and scrambled for anything suitable. There was nothing, only bottles of wine, a box of sweets, and two beautiful dresses he had purchased for her; it would be a pity to ruin one before he had seen her in it. He didn't dare leave the room; what if she were to awaken, alone? Frollo cursed himself under his breath. The gypsy girl wasn't even awake, and already his plan was going straight to Hades. He grabbed one of the wine bottles. Trembling, he poured a large amount into a goblet and drank it.

The wine worked quickly. He poured another. He tried to force calmness, intret in conspectu tuo oratio mea inclina aurem tuam ad precem meam. As he raised the goblet to his mouth, he felt a burning at the back of his neck. He turned slowly.

Her eyes were open; she was watching him. The candlelight reflected in the great black eyes and made them glitter, giving the impression of an animal caught in a dark place. His soul opened and fell; he grasped the table behind him. They stared at each other.

All around them, the moving shadows on the walls gave the impression of a great fire. Claude Frollo returned her stare with what he hoped was a stern, inscrutable expression. After a long pause, Esmeralda's eyes lowered for a moment, then slowly rose again. Frollo imagined he could feel a tiny rustle of wind as her long eyelashes displaced the still air.

He drew in a shaky breath. "Esmeralda."

She continued to stare at him.

"Drink, Esmeralda," he said. He approached her slowly and held out the wine.

She didn't move.

"I brought you here. You are in Notre Dame, in a secret place. You will stay here, with me."

He could see now that she was trembling. Her eyes searched his face.

"What do you want?" she said.

"I want you to drink." He held the goblet closer.

"What are you going to do to me?" Frollo could barely hear her.

He returned to his desk and set down the goblet. "Don't be afraid. I would never hurt you."

Esmeralda started suddenly and looked at her hands, at her body. She moved on the couch, and the blanket shifted aside.

"You are not bound," Frollo said.

"But I can't leave?"

"No"

"Then I am bound," she said. She rose a bit, leaning her weight on an elbow. There was a watchfulness about her, as if she didn't want to make any sudden movements. Her eyes fell and she put her hand to her head. "My head hurts."

"Then drink."

This time, she took the goblet from him. She looked into the wine suspiciously.

"Drink!"

Esmeralda started, took a tentative sip. Her eyes remained down, looking at the goblet in her hand.

Claude Frollo observed her, the graceful legs bent behind, the cloud of black hair. He shuddered, then warmth rushed through him.

"How did you get me here?" Esmeralda said. She raised her great eyes.

"I will explain all that later," he said, almost breathless.

Esmeralda's eyes moved past Frollo to the door.

"The door is locked from the inside," he said. "It is a private chamber; very few people know of it. It is also soundproof; you cannot be heard from outside."

Esmeralda looked at the window.

Frollo sighed. "There are no buttresses here, no gargoyles. It is lofty. Even if you could squeeze through the bars, you would fall."

He saw fear in her eyes. She glanced around the room, searching for a way out. Her eyes ran over the trunk, the candles, the desk, and the couch on which she sat. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered.

"Please don't hurt me, father."

Ah, her voice! Frollo took a step towards her. "I told you I would never hurt you," he said. "I love you, hopelessly. I've loved you since I first saw you, down there." He looked toward the window, then turned back to face her. She was looking at him with an expression of fear and shock, but behind it, in her dark eyes, Frollo saw anger.

After a time, she said, "I didn't know."

"Well?"

"What you really were." She was now sitting upright; her eyes had an odd light in them. He didn't want her to continue.

"Everyone said you were a demon; I didn't believe them. Now I do."

Frollo lowered his eyes, leaned his weight against his desk.

Esmeralda rose, and slowly approached him. Frollo started.

"You are a brute," she said. "You think you can simply take me and keep me here? Who do you think you are? You're certainly not a priest!"

Frollo smiled. "No, I am not a priest, as you say. I am a demon."

She rushed at him. Her fists flew at his face; she made contact with a blow to his cheek, but he caught her wrists and held them with all his strength. She made an animal noise and tried to wrench from his grasp, but she was still weak from the drug, and he held her tightly. She was breathing hard; her eyes huge and round. Frollo could see tears in them. He squeezed her wrists until she stopped struggling, then stared into her eyes. They were both panting.

Gypsy girl, gypsy girl, his soul chanted.

Esmeralda saw the softness in his look. "Let me go," she said.

"You must behave first," he said.

The dark eyes flashed. "I'm sure you wish me to behave in any number of ways, priest," she said. "You love me? You're a hypocrite."

Frollo smiled, stared at her full mouth. He wasn't concerned with her words; the sound of her voice echoed in his ears and vibrated through his body. He bent his head closer, saw her draw back. He dragged her closer, wanted her to speak more. It was a rare pleasure to enjoy listening to her voice so close to his ear; she'd been so far away.

She was now pressed against his chest, her little head coming only up to his chin. A surge of emotion flooded into him; he spoke her name into her hair. Esmeralda tried to pull away, but he held her against him. She smelled of spice and flowers and sweat; the scent maddened him. He trembled against her, his heart beating wildly. Even his hands, now, were trembling. In one rapid movement, she jerked her wrists out of his grasp and jumped away from him. Frollo allowed her to go, watched her as she retreated to the other side of the room, her skirts fluttering, casting birdlike shadows on the walls.

"You didn't finish your wine," he said.

She snorted. "So that's it? I'm to be kept here as your slave?"

Frollo sighed. "Come now, I never knew a gypsy to refuse wine."

Esmeralda locked her eyes on his, began to move forward, walked in a wide circle around Frollo, and then ran to the big door and frantically turned the handle, yelling for someone to help her. Frollo watched her, observing how fragile she appeared against that massive barrier of wood and metal. Esmeralda yelled and kicked the door, futilely shaking the door handle. Then she flew around to face him, her eyes wild.

"Let me out! Let me out!" she cried. Her eyes were wet, and darted around the room. "Who are you, you cruel man? You'd keep a gypsy locked up?"

"I'd lock up the devil himself, if he ravaged my soul as you do," Frollo said.

Esmeralda glanced at his face, then looked around the room once more in desperation. Her eyes suddenly grew huge and bright; her hand flew into her bodice and pulled out a whistle strung on a silver chain. She put the whistle to her lips, and a piercing sound rang through the chamber.

Frollo rushed towards her. He grabbed the whistle, wrenched it from her mouth. Esmeralda fought him wildly, trying to bend toward the whistle to blow it again. Frollo yanked it from her hand. Cursing, he pulled again with all his might, breaking the chain around her neck. He heard the gypsy scream in pain. He rushed to the window, and, with Esmeralda at his heels, flung the whistle into the darkness.

"No more interruptions!" he said. He turned around with a fierce look, and Esmeralda shrank back. "This time, you will deal with me alone, without one of your damnable minions to aid you!"

She covered her face with her hands, and began to sob. Her body crumpling, she floated down to the floor, her skirts billowing around her. Frollo, panting, watched her sob, recalled an earlier time he had begged for her love, how he had been the one, prostrate, weeping at her feet.

After some time, her sobs diminished. She looked up at him with shining eyes, and, as if surprised at seeing him still standing over her, she rose halfway and moved quickly to the couch. She wedged herself against the wall, curling her legs under her. Frollo thought she looked like a naughty child.

He moved to the trunk and took out the box of candy. Opening it, he approached her. "Come, come, girl," he said. "Look what I bought for you."


	5. Chapter 5

Love is a Bohemian child,  
It has never, never known any law,  
If you don't love me, then I love you,  
And if I love you, beware!  
—Carmen, in Bizet's opera.

**5.**

Esmeralda kept close to the wall for a long time, devouring the chocolates the priest had left for her. She tensed whenever he came near, but she knew she was in no immediate danger. The priest hadn't gone mad enough yet to want to harm her, even tucked away as she was in his private torture chamber. She found the place rather interesting, in fact; the erudite writing that covered the walls fascinated her. Esmeralda was not educated, so the foreign words meant nothing to her, but she sensed the learning in them. They were as mysterious to her as the priest himself, replete with hidden meaning.

The priest watched her as she observed the chamber. He leaned on his desk, his chin in his hand. Esmeralda ignored him. After a while, he sat down and looked over an enormous, dusty book. He seemed to bend toward the book with interest, but every movement she made aroused his attention. He looked up when she moved on the couch, as her skirts drew up to reveal her ankles. As she leaned over to adjust her slipper, the top of her bosom showed itself, smooth and undulating as cream. She saw the priest's eyes rush to the sight, heard him groan. Esmeralda could see he was trembling, and his gaze shot away from her.

This priest was hot-blooded, no doubt about that. Odd that he was a priest at all, given his obvious weakness for women.

After a while, Esmeralda tired of their staring game; she stood up and stretched herself. She was a lively girl; sitting still in one place for hours did not agree with her. She wandered around the room, restless, examining objects at random, on his bookshelves, on the fireplace beneath the window. She knew he was watching her.

She circled the perimeter of the room, picking her way among the oddest collection of objects she had ever seen. She heard the priest sigh. From the corner of her eye, she saw him sinking lower in his chair, elbow to armrest, chin in his hand, his book forgotten. His dark eyes drank in her every movement, every swirl of her skirt, every curling flounce of her crow-black hair.

Let him look. His gaze can't hurt me, however fiery it may be.

Eventually, Esmeralda picked up a mortar and pestle, inscribed with runes, in which still remained the residue of some unknown substance.

"What is this?" she said.

He seemed to wake from a trance.

"An experiment."

"What sort of experiment?"

The priest's cheeks flushed.

He is embarrassed. What does he get up to in this secret place?

Esmeralda tilted her head down, looked up at him through her eyelashes.

"Father," she said, "Do you practice..._black magic_?" Her eyes widened satirically.

Frollo's face reddened further, but his mouth turned up in a tiny smile. "Do not mock me," he said.

"Oh no, I'm not," she said. "I was merely wondering what holy purpose this chameleon skeleton can have for you." She held up the skeleton with two dainty fingers and laughed, showing almond-white teeth.

Her laughter rang through the chamber like music. The priest shuddered, drew in a breath.

"Quasimodo dedicates his life to making Notre Dame sing. You laugh just once and put the beauty of his cathedral bells to shame."

Esmeralda glanced at him through her eyelashes. "You _are_ well-spoken, aren't you?" she said.

The priest's eyes widened, and then flew around the room, avoiding her gaze.

She turned to the far wall, pointed to one of the foreign phrases.

"What does that mean, that one in the beautiful, curling letters?" she said.

Frollo cleared his throat, drew in a shaky breath. He looked up.

"It is an ancient Greek phrase, a saying by Plato, from _The Republic_."

"What does it mean?"

"It means, 'Everything that deceives may be said to enchant.' "

Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. She considered the phrase, nodding, repeating it to herself. She strolled over to the couch, picked up the goblet of wine, and took a sip.

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Would you like some wine, father?"

"No," Frollo said, breathing heavily, passing his hand over his brow. He was making quite a show of reading his book.

"Come now," she said, "I've never known a priest to refuse wine."

Frollo looked up at her, and their eyes met.

"Your eyes are stars," he said, dreamily.

Esmeralda held his gaze, began to giggle. The priest's eyes smoldered; then his gaze faltered and dropped to the desk.

Esmeralda continued to stare at him with a saucy look, one hand on her hip. Feeling oddly powerful, she began to amble around the room, looking elaborately at anything that caught her fancy, moving her hips so her skirts rustled and swung. She shot a glance at him. He was watching her with rapt fascination.

She began to sing under her breath; her voice, hushed and sweet, floated around the room. She saw the priest start, and she slowly turned to face him, singing louder. He shut his eyes, leaned forward on his desk, and placed his head in his hands. He seemed to turn into a statue before her eyes.

Intrigued, Esmeralda sauntered closer, still singing. She stopped next to his desk and leaned towards him. Frollo's eyes flew open. When he realized she was singing to him, his cheeks reddened. He gazed at her, breathing heavily, his eyes burning and melting in turn.

Her song ended, and the room was silent.

"You are a siren," he breathed.

Esmeralda looked at him from under her eyelashes, a mischievous smile on her lips. "A starry-eyed siren, no less," she said. "So you like my singing, priest?"

Frollo sucked in his breath; his eyes dropped to his desk. With trembling hands, he flipped the pages of his book.

"Are you searching for the answer to my question in your book?"

His eyes blazed to her face; but when he met her gaze, he drew in a breath, and his eyes darted away.

All passionate sighs and suffering! Esmeralda thought. He's certainly not like any priest I've ever come across. She wondered how much she could make him suffer.

"There is a song I often sing in the public square," she said. "I don't know if you can understand it, despite your learning. It is in _our_ language."

She fixed her gaze on him, smiling. "It is a love song."

He became very still; Esmeralda's eyes searched his face, which was partially hidden from her view.

She bent closer. "Would you like me to sing it to you?"

His face went white. His eyes shot up, locked onto hers. Before he could answer, the gypsy girl began to sing.

Frollo's hands gripped the sides of his desk, and he began to tremble.

Esmeralda circled his desk, singing the love song to him, her voice filling the room with a magical sweetness. The priest's head lowered; his chest rose and fell; he looked as if he were in pain. He did not seem able to look up at her. She circled him, imbuing her voice with all the witchery she could, then sauntered behind his chair again, leaning in close to his ear. Frollo whirled around and grabbed her arm. His grip was tight, and she winced in pain. He yanked her towards him, and she fell on his lap. He clenched his arms around her waist, covered her shoulders with kisses.

Esmeralda gasped and struggled in his arms.

"Sing, girl!" Frollo said. "You madden me!"

"No!" she cried. "Stop grabbing me!" She struggled harder and felt Frollo's hold tighten, making escape impossible.

"If you stop," she said, "I'll sing!"

He released her suddenly, yanking his arms back and out to his sides, like a crucifix.

Victorious, Esmeralda grinned and composed herself, settling more comfortably on his knees. She heard him moan as her body moved against his legs. She leaned in close and began her love song again, _sotto voce_, huskily, marveling at the effect it had on him. His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again and locked onto her gaze with such intensity that Esmeralda felt fire rage through her. He leaned his head back against the chair, his eyes closing. His arms rushed towards her, then pulled away.

Esmeralda poured emotion into her song, a nightingale singing for an emperor. She repeated the romantic refrains inches from his ear, noted with satisfaction that his shuddering grew violent. After her song ended, Frollo remained motionless for a long while, as if listening to the fading echoes of her voice. When he finally opened his eyes, his face was ashen. Esmeralda saw that his eyes were wet.

"A priest's tears," she said.

Frollo quivered, pushed himself against the back of the chair. His arms had fallen to his sides; the heat from his eyes scorched her skin. Esmeralda tilted her head and pouted; she ran her finger over his cheek, gathering up the wetness there.

"I could make a potent spell with your tears, priest," she said.

She put her finger under his chin, slowly tilted his face up. She felt him shaking against her; his heart felt as though it would pound out of his chest. There was a look of submission and fear in his wide eyes. Esmeralda felt something expand inside her; she began to pull away, but he grasped her arms.

"Stay…"

"I might," she said, "But don't grab at me."

He dropped his hands to his sides.

Curious to see him so gentle, Esmeralda remained on his knee and observed him: glistening, intelligent eyes, dark skin, high cheekbones, broad shoulders. How he trembled! She was intrigued by the helplessness of this man who had always frightened her. Perhaps this was the way to master him, through softness.

Under her scrutiny, Frollo turned white and red in rapid succession. His burning eyes remained fixed on hers, his mouth half-open, panting. Esmeralda found that she liked his dark skin, the shape of his open mouth. Most of all, she liked his burning eyes, almost like a gypsy's in their darkness and dancing heat. She reached out and stroked his face, explored its contours with her fingertips.

At her touch, Frollo started, shut his eyes. He moaned as her fingers caressed his cheek, then down over his mouth and throat. He turned his head this way and that, allowing her fingers to slide over his skin. Esmeralda chuckled; he reminded her of a tomcat, lost in its master's caress.

"You're not so fearsome now, are you, priest?" she whispered in his ear.

"_Mon Dieu_," His head fell back against his chair

Esmeralda smiled, her eyes blazing. She pressed herself against him, cupped the sides of his face with her hands, enjoying the sight of him swooning under her. His eyes flew open; they were stormy and black now, with a hunted look. He tried, with trembling fingers, to pull her hands away.

When Esmeralda pressed her lips to his wet cheek, brushed his tears with her lips, Frollo gasped, his eyelids fluttering. She ran her lips ever so softly down his cheek, towards his open, panting mouth. Frollo began to shake, trying to speak. As her mouth poised over his, she felt his heart hammering against her.

"I'll die," he said.

Purring, she grazed her lips around his burning mouth in a slow, aching circle, so gently she was barely touching him. He writhed under her, making helpless sounds in the back of his throat. She drew back a little. He was gasping, his eyes clamped shut, his cheeks flushed and wet. His eyes opened slowly; they were haunted, strange.

"Devil," he breathed.

"Oh, now, be nice," Esmeralda said. "Have you no more Greek for me, no more praise for my starry, starry eyes?"

She teased the back of his neck with her little nails; Frollo inhaled, pressing himself against her fingers. She drew her nails across his broad shoulders, then up to scratch behind his ears. Frollo growled, trembling violently; the candlelight glittered in his half-closed eyes.

"You seem to enjoy being caressed by the devil," Esmeralda said.

Frollo gripped her arms, his eyes aflame.

"Tell me you care for me, even a little," he said, clutching her. "Even if it is a lie!"

Esmeralda purred, pressed herself against him, ran her fingers slowly down his chest. Frollo, gasping raggedly, began to pound his head against the back of the chair. When she began to unfasten one of the buttons on his shirt, Frollo sucked in an agonized breath and caught her hand. His eyes, huge and wet, flew to her face.

Caught in his stricken gaze, Esmeralda moaned softly, moved her face closer to his. She blew softly on his lips, inches away.

"Would you like another kiss, priest?" She whispered.

He crushed himself back against the chair, quivering, shook his head back and forth, like a frightened child.

"No, no more…"

"No?" She began to move away, but he clutched at her, his eyes blazing.

"Yes, yes!"

Esmeralda laughed delightedly.

"Do not laugh at me!" He shook her, his eyes dark and wild.

Esmeralda, extremely amused, laughed more. She pulled her hands from his grasp, then sat up, adjusted her bodice.

"I told you…if you cannot be good…" she said, making as if to go.

Seeing her begin to shift her weight from his lap, Frollo grasped her again.

"No!" he said. "I'll be good!'

Esmeralda tilted her head.

"Well, now, I don't know…" she said.

Frollo's eyes grew wider.

"I'll be good, I'll be good!" He clawed at her.

She solemnly lowered her gaze to his gripping hands. Seeing this, Frollo thrust his arms back and out to his sides as before, holding them in the air.

Esmeralda laughed and laughed. She clapped her hands, laughing. Frollo scowled at her, panting, his dark eyes smoldering. When she leaned closer to him, her breath warm on his face, his scowl melted. She saw passion, terror, and adoration mingled together in his eyes, two black, wavering pools. He shook under her gaze, and his arms fell down to his sides.

"Now, then," Esmeralda said. She grazed her lips over his mouth again, gently licking, then pulled back. Frollo, hypnotized, his eyes half-shut, leaned forward to follow her retreating mouth.

"If I kiss you again," she whispered, "will you set me free?"

He gripped the arms of the chair, moaned something she didn't understand. She pressed her body against him, her mouth over his, their breath mingling.

"Will you set me free?"

"Yes, yes, anything!"

Esmeralda kissed him, slowly opening her mouth, her lips moving with a languorous, erotic rhythm. When she met his tongue with her own, the priest moaned, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his trembling hands in her hair. He kissed her with desperation, gripping her hair in handfuls, his mouth opening wide under hers.

His kisses sent shivers through her. Afraid, Esmeralda flew back, raised her arms to extricate his hands from her hair. She had never seen eyes glow like that!

Frollo cried out and pulled her roughly back, gasped her name. She struggled away again. Snarling, his eyes flashing, Frollo grabbed handfuls of her hair and yanked painfully, forcing her back against him.

She rushed forward and bit him savagely on the mouth. Frollo cried out in pain and surprise. She dug her nails into his hands, heard him howl; she wrenched free, jumped up, and retreated to the other side of the room. Frollo, shaking, put his hand to his mouth. He tasted salty wetness, looked at his fingers. His fingertips were bloody; there was a deep wound on the back of his hand.

He rose, turned to her with fiery eyes. He flew at her, wrenched her arms behind her back, hauled her off the floor. Esmeralda, screaming, struggled in his arms. Frollo threw her on the couch, crushed the weight of his body on top of her. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back; his free hand rushed to her blouse and ripped it open. Esmeralda heard buttons spilling onto the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

You've come across the devil—he isn't always black—  
and you've not had your neck wrung.  
I wear a woolen suit, but I'm no sheep.

Don't think any more about La Carmencita,  
or she'll end by making you marry a widow with wooden legs.  
—Carmen, in Prosper Merimee's novella

**6.**

Esmeralda's beauty, as always, had overwhelmed Claude Frollo. Her otherworldly singing, her teasing, and her physical roughness had maddened him.

Between tender bites and bruising kisses, he moaned her name a thousand times, covered her with the blood from his wounded lip, the mark she had made on him. He forced himself to do it slowly, although it took all of his strength, although he shook with his need to possess her. Esmeralda finally gave up struggling; the more she fought, the more he wrenched her hair back, the tighter and more cruelly he pinned her.

Frollo yanked her blouse lower, and his moaning mouth traveled lower down her collarbone. When he covered her breasts with his burning lips, began to gently suck and bite, he heard Esmeralda moan.

The sound had an immediate effect; he raised his head to look at her with haggard, passionate eyes. He thrust both his hands into her hair, pulled her face up to his and gazed at her as if she would disappear any minute, his dark eyes so wide that Esmeralda could see white all around them. She whimpered and made a gesture to protect herself.

"I'm helpless before you!" Frollo said, his eyes bruising her face. "I can't sleep; I can't pray–I pray to _you_, you wretched creature!"

He shook her with fury, clawed at her hair.

"If you don't kiss me _now_ –"

But, to his surprise, she did.

They writhed on the couch as the late evening turned to early morning. Frollo was filled with a surreal, unbearable joy at clasping his greatest dream, finally, in his arms. It was too much; it would kill him, more surely than any poison. His soul flew out of his body and fluttered madly around the room. When Esmeralda stroked his face, when she brushed his lips with her tongue, his soul rushed back and threw itself at her feet. He began to fear for his mind, his life. He feared somehow, very soon, he would be punished for this ecstasy.

Esmeralda opened her legs and rubbed herself against him with a voluptuousness that made him cry out. He released his tight grip on her and ran his hands over her sylph's body. Esmeralda grazed her lips over his, cooing; she pulled open the buttons of his layman's shirt with her teasing little fingers, brought her hand under his shirt. Frollo, overwhelmed, clamped shut his eyes as her little hand explored his skin. He heard the gypsy girl hiss something into his ear, but he couldn't understand her words. As her fingers traveled down his body, back up the inside of his thigh, and then stroked back and forth between his legs, Frollo threw his head back and moaned, utterly lost.

And then it all stopped.

He opened his eyes and darted his gaze around the spinning, murky room. Esmeralda stood near the desk, her arms folded across her chest.

Frollo's body still vibrated from her touch; he heard a loud ringing in his ears, as though he were imprisoned under the cathedral's largest bell. He lowered his head, clawed his brow with a trembling hand, and tried to catch his breath. It was a long time before the swirling visions and sensual impressions of her body began to fade away. He knew that Esmeralda was watching him, but he couldn't face her. Fighting for air, he kept his eyes down.

Mingled with Claude Frollo's agony was a fury at her for stopping what she had been doing to him. She had transported him to Ηλύσια πεδία—the fields of Elysion—only to drop him, alone, into the pit to face Kerberos, in the shape of a snarling gypsy girl.

"So you are just a man, after all," Esmeralda said.

He gulped in air. "And you are a demon!"

"Yes, perhaps," said Esmeralda. She laughed.

"You are cruel!"

"_I _am cruel?" She took a few unsteady steps closer. "Isn't that rather hypocritical coming from a priest who has imprisoned a gypsy, and who has just tried to rape her?"

Frollo tried to latch onto the meaning of the word, heard it echoing around and around the chamber. Esmeralda snorted.

"And I suppose you no longer love me, because I am so cruel?"

She returned to the desk and grabbed the half-empty goblet. She spied the wine bottle, re-filled the glass. She gulped the wine down, pounded the glass on the table, and glared at him, her head lowered.

"What now, priest?" she said.

When he made no answer other than desperate breathing, she sighed and began to circle his desk, moving her hips so her skirts rustled and swung.

"No answer? Well, I suppose you are all talked out. Or, perhaps, your mouth is tired."

She chuckled, put one hand to her hip.

"Gringoire and I have had many late-night chats; but, alas, you are not Gringoire."

Blood rushed to Frollo's face. "You and that—_poet_—speak to each other at night?"

"Ah, he's found his tongue at last," said Esmeralda. "He was using it very well for a while there; Oh, I thought for one horrible moment it had gone away for good!"

Frollo swung around to face her. His eyes were flashing, but when he saw her, a great melting subdued his anger. She was still disheveled from their momentary passion; her hair floated around her face like a dark halo; her blouse was open, revealing her splendid breasts, all that golden skin. She didn't seem ashamed, and made no effort to conceal herself. His heart started to pound.

Esmeralda regarded him with a slow smile.

"Am I the only gypsy girl you've ever brought here, father? Should I be jealous?"

She began to trail a finger down her cleavage. She saw Frollo's eyes latch onto the sight, saw him draw in his breath.

"God help me," he said. "You truly are a demon."

The demon ambled over to him, rustling its skirts.

"Will you let me go if I were to be very, very nice to you? I am not always cruel, you know." She pouted, stroked Frollo's cheek, her eyes suddenly large and pleading.

"I don't like the idea of being locked up. What have I done to deserve it? I've never hurt you, or anyone. You said you would let me go. Will you let me?"

At her touch, Frollo breathed in through clenched teeth, closed his eyes. And, _Mon Dieu_, her voice! She was purring into his ear now, her lips only inches away. He could feel her warm breath against his skin as she spoke; it sent lightning down his spine. He felt himself succumbing again to melting, illogical madness.

He prayed that she didn't begin to sing.

"You like when I speak to you this way, don't you, priest?" Esmeralda said, leaning in even closer. "There are other things I can do, very pretty things, that you'd like even more, I'm sure of it." She caressed the back of his neck with her fingernails, her mouth against his ear. "There are some delights you cannot take by force."

Frollo began to shake. Esmeralda looked at his face, her eyes glittering.

"Or have you already learned that from your other gypsy dancing-girls?"

"Do not mock me!" he said, barely able to restrain himself from jumping up, ripping off all her clothes this time, and covering her body with his clawing hands and snarling mouth. He would show the insolent witch the meaning of the word rape.

Either that or he'd throw himself at her feet and beg for mercy.

"Oh no, father; I'm not mocking you," Esmeralda said. She placed her little hands on his shoulders, straddled his legs between her own, and, facing him, slowly lowered herself onto his lap. Her breasts were now just under his mouth. Frollo, hypnotized, sucked in his breath.

"Ah yes," Esmeralda said, her mouth in a little smile, "There are some pleasures you can only experience if I am willing."

She ground her hips into him with a maddening, erotic rhythm; Frollo's back arched almost against his will, and his eyes rolled shut. He let out a long, desperate groan. He now realized that to keep Esmeralda in captivity would mean endless battles of this sort, and he welcomed them wholeheartedly.

Esmeralda threw her head back and laughed. Her laughter echoed around the chamber, seemed to make the candles grow brighter. Frollo, in an erotic daze, thought blearily that he heard a staccato, rapping undertone to Esmeralda's bell-like laughter. As her laughter faded, the knocking sound persisted, grew louder, and Frollo realized with fury and dread that someone was knocking at his door.

He shook himself, rolled Esmeralda onto the couch, moved to the trunk, and pulled out a set of strong ropes. Esmeralda jumped up and ran for the door. Frollo rushed at her, pulled her back by her hair, and dragged her, on her knees, back to the couch. She screamed in pain, clutching at his hands. He yanked each of her arms back, then tied her wrists to the arm of the couch.

"Be quiet!" he said.

Esmeralda began to keen in an unearthly wail.

Frollo, in a panic, grabbed his disheveled shirt and ripped the fabric in half, tearing off two long strands. He forced one strand into Esmeralda's mouth, cursing as she bit his fingers, then tied the other around her mouth and fastened it tightly behind her head. Esmeralda continued to yell, but her screams were muffled; she pulled her wrists where they were tied to the couch.

The knocking continued, more insistent now. Frollo glared and waved his arms at Esmeralda to be silent, but she didn't obey. The infernal knocking went on, grew into loud banging. Behind it, very faintly, Frollo heard a familiar voice call out his name. His heart sank; he knew this visitor would not go away unsatisfied.

He retrieved his key and rushed to the door; as he touched the door handle, the banging stopped. Frollo opened the door very slowly, just a crack, and peered out into the hallway. A face thrust out of the darkness.

"Hell's bells," said Jehan, one eyebrow raised, "What are you getting up to in there? I swear I heard a most unholy wailing, and you talking to someone!"

"What the hell do you want?"

"I came to ask for some…advice," said Jehan, eyeing him with curiosity. "One of your minions very considerately let me into the tower stairway; I believe he's hobbling along behind me." He made a gesture towards the dark hallway. "Let me in before the old fool gets up here, eh?"

Frollo put his hand on his brother's chest and pushed him back. "Go away, damn you! I'll talk to you later!"

Jehan, surprised, began to protest. Frollo retaliated, pushed harder, and Esmeralda screamed through her gag. Both men froze.

Jehan raised his eyebrows. "There's the sound I heard! Unholy wailing!"

Frollo tried to slam the door, but Jehan thrust his boot into the doorjamb.

"What is that? Here, let me in!" He shoved the door with all his strength, forcing it wider.

Frollo, caught off balance, glanced furtively into the dark hallway behind Jehan, then cursed, grabbed his brother by the collar and yanked him into the room. He slammed the door, locked it, and spun around.

Jehan was standing near the desk, staring, open-mouthed, at Esmeralda struggling on the couch, bound and half-dressed. Dumbstruck,he slowly turned to examine Frollo, disheveled and shaking in his layman's disguise, his shirt ripped in half. Jehan sputtered, stared again at Esmeralda, tried to speak. A slow, incredulous smile spread over his face, and he began to laugh.

"Shut up!" Frollo said.

Jehan doubled over with laughter; he staggered and gripped the desk to prevent himself from falling.

"Shut up, damn you!" Frollo shoved him, and Jehan fell weakly against the desk.

Shaking, hysterical, Jehan pointed at the gypsy, then at Frollo.

"My brother Claude!" he gasped. "My virtuous, ascetic, virginal brother Claude!"

Frollo, white and shaking, his eyes huge, bit his thumb to prevent himself from flying at his brother in a rage. Jehan rose, fought for breath, wiped his streaming eyes. He stared with twitching amusement at the gypsy girl, then slid his glance back to peer at Frollo from the corners of his narrowed eyes.

"Oh, Claude," he said, shaking his head, "This is really going to cost you."

Frollo cursed and rushed at him, but Jehan leapt nimbly away, circled the desk, and began to approach the gypsy girl, creeping towards her as if she were a dangerous animal.

"Hooo now, what's this?" Jehan said.

Frollo rushed forward and yanked him back by the collar. "Don't go near her!"

Jehan yelped, stumbled backward. He shook himself free and regarded his brother with a mock-serious air, his hands on his hips.

"Is this a new student of yours, Claude? Are you teaching this wench Latin?" He burst into laughter again.

"Jehan, so help me, if you don't shut up, I'm going to eviscerate you!" said Frollo.

"But, brother, _brother_! This is all so…unexpected, yet, at the same time, it makes such perfect sense!"

"You are intolerable!" Frollo rushed forward to throttle him.

Jehan darted away and dropped himself into Frollo's chair. He turned to face the gypsy girl, stared at her with great interest. Esmeralda, strangely calm, returned his gaze with doleful eyes.

"My, my," said Jehan, shaking his head, "But she is comely, isn't she?"

Frollo cast him a quick, warning glance. Jehan reached for the wine bottle and took a long, practiced swig.

"Not that I blame you, Claude," he said, wiping his mouth and gesturing with the bottle, "but is this really the only way you could persuade the girl to pay you a visit?"

The corners of his mouth turned up again, but he choked back his laughter. He leaned towards Esmeralda.

"Is this the way my brother the Archdeacon treats women, mademoiselle?" he said, "By trussing them up and dressing them down?"

"Don't you look at her, damn you!" Frollo said. He rushed over to Esmeralda and knelt down in front of her, tried to rearrange her blouse.

"Oh come now!" said Jehan, "Don't ruin this for me!"

Frollo held Esmeralda's blouse in both hands, meant to close it, but simply stared at her, breathing heavily. He heard Jehan let out a long, low whistle behind him, but he was frozen to the spot, caught by the magnetic pull of her body. Esmeralda looked down at him, then up at his brother, tried to inch away. Frollo, mesmerized, leaned forward and kissed her reverently between her breasts.

Jehan let out an astonished laugh and flung an arm across his face. "I can't watch this!" He took another large drink, shifted uneasily, but groaned when Frollo succeeded in covering Esmeralda's body.

"At least un-gag the wench, so I can hear her side of the story!" Jehan said.

"Go to hell," said Frollo.

"Ahh brother, I will, sooner or later, but now I know who will be there first, waiting for me!"

Frollo stood. "Yes, no doubt of it."

Jehan glanced up at Frollo's face. "Seriously now," he said, in less than serious tones, "Have all your squelched hormones staged a coup d'etat upon your brain? Have you gone entirely crackers, dear Claude?"

"I am not sure anymore," said Frollo. He put a hand to his forehead.

Jehan stared up at him. "Are you…fond of the girl? Why else would you risk— "

"I am fond of her," said Frollo, unable to look up.

"Yes, yes, more than obvious," muttered Jehan, almost to himself. "_Sacre Bleu_, I never dreamed I'd actually see the day. I hoped, yes, I _hoped_ one day I'd see the day, but I never dreamed I'd actually—"

"Shut your mouth and listen!" Frollo said. "I need to leave this room for a few minutes. I want you to stay here and watch her. Do not touch her, do you hear? If I come back here, and you've touched her…"

"Touch her?" Jehan laughed. "Moi?"

Smirking, he glanced at Esmeralda. She was looking right at him; there was an odd light in her mysterious eyes, and his smile faded away.

"Is she a witch?" he said, lowering his voice. "She won't cast a spell on me, will she?"

"Damn you, no," said Frollo. He stroked his chin. "At least, I hope not."

Jehan rose, grabbed Frollo by the arm, spun him away from Esmeralda.

"Look here, brother, I'm not sure I should be alone with this creature," he slowly turned to look at Esmeralda over his shoulder, and was surprised to see the gypsy girl's eyes widen sarcastically at him.

"She's wily, I can tell," Jehan continued. "I know women, Claude, you don't." He dragged a hand over his brow, glanced back at Esmeralda, "This one is trouble."

"Be quiet!" Frollo said, shaking, past his patience. "Do as I say, or I will throw you off one of the towers, do you hear me?"

"Yes, yes, all of Paris can hear you, brother," Jehan said and narrowed his eyes. "But hear _me_ now..."

"Well?"

Jehan took a deep breath and grinned. "What's in it for me?"

"Ahh, yes", said Frollo, "I was wondering when you would get to that." He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small velvet pouch and shoved it into Jehan's hand. Jehan opened the bag and peered inside. His eyes shone.

"Are these real?"

"What do you think?" said Frollo. "They're yours, if you do as I say and keep your mouth shut." He grabbed the pouch, thrust it into his pocket, and threw the door key at Jehan. "Lock the door after me."

"Aye, brother!" said Jehan. "Order away! Need me to tie her tighter, or interrogate her about her indisputable witcheries? Just say the word!"

Frollo grabbed Jehan by the throat and shoved him against the wall.

"Do not touch her, do not speak to her," he said.

Then he left.


	7. Chapter 7

I picked up my bag, went looking for a place to hide,  
Then I saw Carmen and the Devil walking side by side,  
I said, "Hey Carmen, come on, let's go downtown."  
She said, "I gotta go, but my friend can stick around."  
-- R. Robertson, "The Weight"

**7.**

Jehan glanced at the gypsy sitting bound on the couch, then raised his eyes to the far wall and stared at his brother's unintelligible scrawls. Slowly, trying to appear relaxed, he put the door key Frollo had just given him into his pocket. He pursed his lips, almost began whistling, but decided that would appear too forced. He curled his lips into a strained smile instead, walked to Frollo's chair, and sat. He could feel Esmeralda's gaze crawling over the side of his face.

"I should probably _say_ something," he thought, almost panic-stricken, searching his mind for a suitably blasé remark. He had none.

Esmeralda's dark eyes ran over his face, his legs, his feet, up again to his face. Jehan shivered and began to wish that his brother would return. Remembering the wine on the table, he reached out and took a long drink. He heard Esmeralda snort through her gag. With dread, Jehan slid his eyes over to look at her.

Esmeralda was still watching him, but her expression was softer now, more appealing. She lowered her head and blinked her great eyes. Then, locking her eyes onto his, she pulled her head back with a slow snap, as if to say _come here_.

Jehan grinned apprehensively and ignored her request by taking another swig of wine. Esmeralda whimpered, her eyes softer still, her eyebrows drawn up into a suggestion of submission.

Jehan cleared his throat. "Yes?" he said, feeling like a fool.

With a little squeal, the gypsy girl stamped her foot and tipped her head back again in an exaggerated summoning motion.

Oddly compelled, his heart thudding, Jehan reluctantly stood and approached her. He carried the wine bottle with him and rolled it back and forth against his outer thigh. He stopped about three feet from the gypsy, bowed slightly at the waist, and again cleared his throat.

"Yes, my dear girl?" he said.

With pleading eyes, Esmeralda motioned to him to remove her gag.

"What can this little witch really do to me?" thought Jehan. "She's bound, after all. And besides, I'm very curious what she has to say for herself."

He moved closer, clasped the wine bottle between his legs, reached behind Esmeralda's head, and undid the knots Frollo had tied. They were very secure--must have been quite painful, he thought--and it was some time before he was able to remove the outer gag. Once it was gone, the gypsy spat out the balled-up piece of cloth in her mouth. She shook her head, and floating black tendrils of hair danced around her face. Then she raised her eyes and studied him.

"So he is your brother, that priest?" she finally said.

"That's _archdeacon_ to you, mademoiselle," said Jehan, raising one side of his mouth in a crooked smile.

"He's quite a brute!"

"I've always known he had brutish instincts, yes," Jehan said. "I suppose that's what makes him such a successful priest."

"_Archdeacon,_" said Esmeralda.

Jehan chuckled, ran his eyes over her body. He lifted the bottle. "Did you want some wine?"

"Yes, but please untie me first?" Esmeralda said, her eyes suddenly swimming.

"Oh, I couldn't do that, mademoiselle." Jehan said.

"Please, Jehan?"

Jehan froze. How did the little witch know his name? He took a step backwards, observed her lean forward ever so slightly, her eyes shining. Her little mouth was open, showing her white teeth. Her blouse was still loose enough to display the tops of her breasts, and as she leaned further, they came more fully into his view. She was one of the most desirable women he'd ever laid eyes on; no wonder Claude was mad about her. Jehan tore his eyes from the sight.

"I can't," he said.

Esmeralda stretched herself towards him. "I'm in pain, Jehan; he hurt me!" she said, bowing her pretty head, her eyes sparkling with tears. "What can I possibly do to you? Please, untie me!"

"I shouldn't," he said. He looked away.

"I'm afraid! If you don't help me, he'll keep hurting me! He said he's going to rape me, Jehan!" She dropped her head and began to weep.

Jehan, stricken, looked nervously around the room. He took another swig of wine. Then he put the bottle down, walked behind Esmeralda, and began to work on the knots binding her hands.

"Don't misunderstand me, girl," he rasped into her ear as he untied her. "I feel for you, but only so much. Don't get any ideas about my helping you. If you try anything, I'll truss you up more painfully than my brother could."

Esmeralda nodded quickly, and pulled her hands free of her bonds. She rose unsteadily and stood close to Jehan, massaging her wrists and looking deeply into his eyes. Jehan noticed with some trepidation how her physical presence affected him, and how very quickly her tears had dried.

He sucked in his breath. "I want the gems my brother showed me, mademoiselle, so I won't help you any further! But I suppose if my anointed brother plans to rape you, he should at least give you a fighting chance in the matter…"

"How considerate," said Esmeralda.

"You _are_ a saucy wench, aren't you?" remarked Jehan, amused. His eyes took in the sight of her: big eyes, little mouth, wild hair, revealing blouse, the body of an angel or a devil.

"Your brother showed you gems, you say?" said Esmeralda, turning away and beginning to wander towards the back of the room, touching objects here and there. "Were they big gems or little gems in that tiny little velvet pouch?"

"They looked big enough to me."

"Big enough for what?" said Esmeralda, stopping and slowly turning to face him.

"Big enough to maintain my wastrel's lifestyle, mademoiselle." Jehan said. "I had no idea my brother even had them; I wonder where the deuce he got hold of them."

Esmeralda snorted. "He probably stole them from the last woman he abducted and raped."

"Come now, little witch. I know my brother, and he's never done anything like this before. He must be unbearably besotted with you." He looked over at her and forced himself to grin. "Here now, what the devil _have_ you done to my brother?"

Esmeralda laughed, a low, feline sound.


	8. Chapter 8

Human infirmity in moderating and checking the emotions  
I name bondage: for, when a man is a prey to his emotions,  
he is not his own master, but lies at the mercy of fortune:  
so much so, that he is often compelled, while seeing that  
which is better for him, to follow that which is worse.  
--Benedict de Spinoza

**8.**

Jehan eyed Esmeralda nervously, wondering what part, if any, she had played in the drama he had unwittingly stepped into so short a time before. The woman was beautiful, no doubt, darkly beautiful with a dangerous, magical quality; her eyes and hair both seemed to spark colors and dance them against her light golden skin: cobalt blue, deep emerald, a touch of orange fire.

Jehan now understood how the mere visual contemplation of this woman's beauty had driven his brother to such extremes, let alone her marked sensuality, teasing wit, and the way she sparkled and seemed to float with every delicate movement. His brother Claude was an emotional man, despite the fact that his life had been dedicated to repressing those emotions in deference to his great intelligence and the authority of his faith. It made sense that his brother's passions, recently inflamed by this woman's magnetism, were now seeping out through the cracks in his armor and belying his priestly persona.

Jehan stooped and recovered the oft-used bottle of wine. His heart sank; it was almost empty. There was no way in Hades he could endure this odd situation much longer without continued "spiritual" fortification. He glanced at the gypsy; she was watching him with an inscrutable expression, standing in graceful _contrapposto_ with one hand hooked onto her hip. Jehan lifted the bottle and took a small drink, then gestured towards Esmeralda.

"Some wine, little witch?"

Esmeralda smiled and approached him, hand still on her hip. Jehan eyed the room for a glass or container, but the gypsy was already upon him, tugging the bottle from his hand and raising it to her lips. She finished the wine, then simply stood there, under his nose, looking up at him. Jehan felt his skin flush all over his body. Esmeralda smiled and made a disturbingly erotic sound deep in her throat.

"Good wine?" Jehan said, grinning and backing away. "My brother always has access to fine wines, thanks to his exalted profession." He made an unsuccessful attempt at laughter.

As he retreated, the gypsy observed him from the corners of her owl-big eyes. Then she walked to the trunk she had seen Frollo use earlier, and tried the lid. She knelt down and, clucking her tongue, began to rummage through the contents.

"There is more wine here, and some dresses, which are rather beautiful," she said, turning to look at Jehan, a twisted half-smile on her little mouth. "Do you suppose they are intended for me?"

Jehan's sputtered response was unintelligible to them both. Esmeralda reached further into the trunk, seemed to arrange the contents, then turned again to face him.

"Do you suppose I ought to try one on?" she said, plucking out a shimmery mass of deep-golden, gauzelike material.

"No, no, don't do that, little one," said Jehan, rushing over and pulling the dress from her.

_Where in blazes is Claude?_ he thought desperately._ Has he taken a trip to China on foot?_

"It's probably best to simply leave these things as they were," he said, fluttering the dress in his hand. "We _will_ have some more wine, though." He retrieved a bottle from the trunk and gave her a weak smile.

Esmeralda examined him dourly. "Are you afraid of the archdeacon?" she said. "I _thought_ you were a child by your appearance, but I did not realize, until now, that you were as spineless as that." She tilted her head at him.

"Yes, mademoiselle, I am damnably afraid of my brother at times, and you should be as well!" said Jehan, stung in spite of himself. He threw the dress back into the trunk and slammed down the lid.

"Well, go then, little man," said Esmeralda, with a wave of her hand. "Follow your brother's orders, and behave like the whey-face you appear to be! You do everything he tells you to do? You allow him to carp at you, to support you with his little gems, to master you; don't you have a tiny leg of your own to stand on?"

She took a step closer and looked him up and down with a bowel-shriveling stare.

"You'd even take his side over that of a violated woman without so much as a question? I thought perhaps you and he were cut from the same cloth, so to speak, but obviously I was mistaken. I have no further use for you."

She snatched the wine bottle from his hand and glided to the window, where she settled herself on the windowsill and looked longingly out through the cloudy glass.

"Hell's _bells_! You are a devilish female and no mistaking!" said Jehan. Trembling in every sinew, he struggled to check his emotions. He felt a strange, compelling desire to defend himself to this glittering, unruly creature. The idea that she could accuse him--rebellious, free-spirited rouge that he was--of being an unmanly lackey to his brother infuriated him.

He saw himself approach the gypsy girl and raise an appeasing hand.

"Now, my girl, I know you're upset and frightened, you have every right to be," he said. "I don't know why my brother's brought you here against your will, but he was most ungentlemanly in doing so. Perhaps there's a way to bring this situation to a resolution that could work for both of us?"

Esmeralda glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Go away," she said.

Jehan flashed her a charming smile. This was more in his realm of experience, more like a situation he could understand and deal with on his own terms: a very attractive, pouty woman, angry at not having had her way with him.

"Indeed," he continued. "Why don't you just sit down again on that couch there, and I will simply try to convince my brother to release you when he returns."

Esmeralda snorted. "That won't work." She faced him and flicked her gaze from his feet up to his eyes. "You do not seem to know your brother at all."

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but I know him a might better than you do! He raised me, educated me—as well as he could, that is. I know him better than I know anyone else in the world."

"It is clear to me that you _don't_ know your brother, at least when he imagines himself to be in love," said Esmeralda. "You said as much yourself: that he has never behaved this way before in your presence."

The little witch had a point; Jehan had to admit to himself that he was flabbergasted by his brother's recent behavior.

"And even if your inane plan _were_ to work," Esmeralda continued, smiling now, "what of your little gems? Surely your brother wouldn't hand them over to you if you convinced him to release me?"

"Aye, another good point, little witch," said Jehan. He stroked his chin.

"I have a better plan," said the gypsy. She turned eagerly towards him, and as she placed her tiny hand on his arm, Jehan felt a shiver pass through him.

"I'm sure the priest has at least two keys to this door," said Esmeralda. "He is too intelligent, too possessive, to leave you here alone with me and his only key. My wager is that when he returns, he will open the door with another key. Whether or not he does so will determine the steps we need to take."

She pulled him a little closer to her by tugging on his arm. She slid her gaze upwards, seemed to gather her thoughts, then continued, her great fringed eyes latching onto his.

"If the priest uses a second key to open the door when he returns, you should leave here quickly, as if you were too overwhelmed to remain, and keep the door key he gave you. He will find this odd, no doubt, but he will most likely not run out to pursue you, since his main goal is to guard me, and since, basically, he trusts you."

Jehan winced and looked at the floor.

"Do not leave the cathedral," Esmeralda continued, "instead, wander for a bit, then come back and listen, quietly, at the door. I will get the gems from the priest in my own way, and I will signal to you, by singing, once I have them. You then open the door, seize him and hold him fast; he is brawny, so I will help you to subdue him if necessary. Do not harm him, but give me enough time to escape, and, later, I will hand you the gems myself."

She caught his gaze, and her lips turned up in a wry smile. "A gypsy's freedom is worth any number of little gems; besides, I know how to acquire jewels when I wish it."

Esmeralda shifted her body on the windowsill, then looked around the room and sighed. "I am tired of this little room and its dismal view of the square; I want to run and dance under the open sky! The priest will not let me go willingly; he imagines himself too much in love. But you and I, together, can subdue him."

Jehan took a deep breath. What the little witch was asking him to do troubled him in countless ways, but his feet seemed heavy, riveted to the floor, and he could not back away.

"What if my brother does not have another key?" he said, almost hopefully. "What if he needs me to open the door for him when he returns? He will demand the key back from me upon his arrival."

Esmeralda turned her gaze back to him. "That will be more difficult, but still possible. If you have to open the door for the priest, you will also have to attack him once he returns. It would be preferable for you to jump him later, of course, once he has been worked on by me, for he will be very disoriented and not at all wary." She smiled and looked away to the back of the chamber, where Frollo's scrawls vibrated on the walls. "But if you have to, attack him when he comes back. The rest of my plan is the same from that point on—we will merely take the gems from him. You get the gems, and I get my freedom."

Although he had difficulty doing so, Jehan removed Esmeralda's hand from his arm and took a step backwards. He drew a shaky breath and released it fully before speaking.

"Little one, concoct another plan," he said. "You may be impressed by my brotherly devotion, and I suppose that alone is partially true, but as you stated with such cruel truth earlier, my brother supports me, and it would be folly for me to risk that. I've seen the way he looks at you; if I were to take you from him, he would never forgive me. I couldn't betray my brother that way."

Esmeralda rose her devastating eyes to his.

"Well, then I will no longer love you," she said.

While Jehan shook under the bewildering weight of her statement, Esmeralda took hold of his collar and pulled him close to her. She wrapped her legs around him, pressed her face against his, and, moaning softly, began to tease his lips with hers. Jehan responded before he had time to react otherwise, and soon the two were sharing a long, passionate embrace.

Jehan, suddenly frightened by his weakness and the swirly, yielding emotions she inspired in him, put his hands on each side of her face and pulled back, staring into her eyes.

Esmeralda giggled. "You _are_ a little like him," she said.


	9. Chapter 9

The credulity of love is the most fundamental source of authority.  
-Freud

9.

"My dear girl," said Jehan, struggling to regain his composure and unfasten Esmeralda's hands from his neck, "I'm extremely flattered, but we must be careful. Surely you don't want my brother to see us in this compromising attitude when he returns?"

"Oh damn him; he doesn't frighten me," said Esmeralda. She laughed and pressed herself closer, felt a shiver pass through him. "_You _wouldn't imprison a gypsy, would you?"

"Of course not," said Jehan, almost gasping. He wished with every aching fiber of his being that he were in a bawdy house with this provocative creature, and not in his stern brother's chamber, with his stern brother soon to return.

"Ahh, you see? It's no wonder I was immediately attracted to you, as a kind man, as the one person who can help me," She ran her fingertips playfully down his chest, then wound her hands around his waist.

"I understand, I do indeed, dear girl," said Jehan, "but, right now, _right now_, I'd be much more comfortable if you were to release me!" He managed to pull himself away, stumbled over Esmeralda's legs, then took a few halting steps backwards. The witch was maddeningly desirable: she seemed to know just how to touch and flirt with him. Every perfumed breath, every feminine gesture was part of a nuanced, seductive dance that Jehan found nearly impossible to resist. It occurred to him suddenly that he and his brother might have the same taste in women; this one certainly was dangerously attractive to both of them. It was difficult for Jehan to catch his breath around her, let alone think. He assiduously avoided her eyes.

A rattling at the door made them both start. Esmeralda jumped off the windowsill and flew back to the couch. She threw Jehan a knowing, conspiratorial look, but the young man began to panic; he was still not at all sure of their plan, and he feared that betraying his brother would be a huge mistake. But there was no more time.

The door opened and Frollo appeared, carrying a number of brown paper-wrapped parcels, looking taller and more stern than Jehan had ever remembered him. Frollo had changed his clothes from his layman's garb into his _missa solemnis _robe, surplice and stole; the latter was marbled down the front with gold and violet embroidery and lent him an air of gilded, purple royalty.

Frollo locked the door behind him, then turned to observe the condition of his brother and captive. He disliked what he saw. Esmeralda sat askew on the couch, ungagged and untied, her lips swollen, her blouse and hair unruly. There was a saucy gleam in her eyes that made his pulse quicken. Jehan could not seem to meet his older brother's flashing gaze, but kept shifting from one foot to the other, a faint blush flowering his cheeks.

Frollo walked to his desk, dropped the parcels, then strode over to his brother, who seemed to shrink in height as he approached. "Well, what happened?"

Jehan, examining the floor, made no reply. Frollo grabbed his arm and shook it.

"I asked you a question, you mule! Why is the gypsy ungagged, untied?" He turned his head towards Esmeralda, drank in the sight of her, then forced his attention back to Jehan.

"Now, Claude," said Jehan, raising his hands, "I didn't do anything—"

Frollo thrust his face down to glare directly into Jehan's eyes. "Did you not hear me when I told you to neither touch nor talk to her?" His voice shook.

"But I felt sorry for the wench!"

"_Mon Dieu_, I've had as much of your disobedience as I can endure!" Frollo raised his eyes and bellowed to the ceiling, flinging his hands. "It's beyond enduring!"

Throwing his stormy glance around the room, he allowed it to rain down upon the gypsy girl, on her unruly blouse and poppy mouth. Growing suddenly still and pensive, as if something unpleasant had just occurred to him, Frollo stared at Esmeralda as if the crawling scrutiny of his gaze could scour her clean of that bruised-looking mouth, that vaguely erotic messiness that so troubled him. He crossed his arms, supported an elbow with one hand and his chin with the other. Jehan could see color rising under Claude's high cheekbones.

Frollo turned upon his brother with a sudden, fiery look. "What did you do to her?"

Jehan wriggled past him and rushed for the door. "I really should leave. I can see that there will be no talking—"

"Leave? No, no, my fine young faun, you'll do no such thing," said Frollo, clamping his hand on Jehan's shoulder and roughly pulling him back. "Leaving so soon? When you were all eagerness to have a go at her before I left?"

"The poor girl was _weeping_ for me to untie her!" said Jehan. "I ask you, what was I to do? I may be penniless, my penurious Claude, but I am not heartless!" He yanked his arm from Frollo's grasp and set off again for the door. "I think you need some time to calm down, dear bro—"

Frollo seized Jehan by the throat with an iron hand and slammed him against the stone wall. He thrust his face against Jehan's, sparks igniting his dark eyes, and peeled the corners of his mouth back to reveal sharp teeth in a hissed, vicious smile.

"It's not your heart I'm worried about, you ingrate!" He squeezed Jehan's throat. "What did you do to her?"

"Claude, let me go!" Jehan said. "You're hurting me!" He cast a desperate glance at Esmeralda, seated on the couch across the room. Apart from appearing somewhat amused by the scene, she did nothing, merely met his gaze with a calm, unfathomable expression. _"_Is she is attempting to keep our plot intact?" Jehan thought, "Maybe, but will she save me if Claude becomes more violent?_"_

"I'll hurt you much more than this if you do not speak!" Frollo said, clawing at his own brow with his free hand. He snorted and shook his head. "By god, if you touched her, you'll never speak again! I'll gouge your waggish tongue out!" He jerked Jehan forward, then slammed him back. "_Answer me!_"

The color in Frollo's cheeks was as vivid as the violet in his ceremonial robes; his blazing eyes now flashed with a frightening, maniacal fire.

"I didn't touch her, Claude! It-it was _she_ who approached me! " Jehan saw Esmeralda shoot him a searching, disbelieving look.

Frollo's face blanched; the room rotated around him, the stone walls began to move inward. He convulsively tightened his grip on Jehan's throat.

"It's true, brother, I swear it!" said Jehan, gasping, clawing at Frollo's arm. "She's a witch, didn't I say so when I first saw her? She tried to seduce me!"

"She _tried_ to seduce you, pantywaist? Did she _succeed_?" Frollo turned to glare at Esmeralda.

For the briefest of moments, the gypsy's face flushed and her eyes flew from one man to the other. "The useless young calf,_" _she thought_, "_to spill so easily!" Aware that Frollo was staring at her, however, the heat of his eyes branding her face, she raised herself up and curled her little hands into little fists.

"He's lying," she said. "He waited until you were gone, then he put his hands and mouth all over me!" She clutched her gaping blouse together with two shaking hands. "He wasn't even going to untie me; he was going to have his way with me as I was, bound, helpless!"

Frollo's eyes went black. He grabbed Jehan's collar with both fists now and slammed him, again and again, against the wall, his strident voice raising in volume with each blow. "_Did you do this?_"

Jehan, bouncing painfully against hard stone, could barely manage a reply. Eyes wide, he raised his hands in supplication and shook his head back and forth. "It's not true!" he said. "I never! Claude, she made me---"

"It _is_ true!" said Esmeralda, slowly approaching Frollo. The priest glanced sideways at her; even with this great distraction, Esmeralda could see how powerfully her presence affected him.

"Your brother touched me, priest, he _kissed_ me," she said, hissing. "He said he wanted to steal your gems and run away with me!"

Frollo jerked his head as if she had struck him. He stared blindly, gasping for breath.

"He kissed my neck, my breasts," said Esmeralda, now inches from his ear. "He tried to make love to me…"

As if to tear away the sound of her words. Frollo clawed at his ears with his hands, releasing Jehan. Esmeralda moved in closer, her fingers dusting his forearm.

"He said _he_ knows his way around a woman's body…"

Frollo, with a strangled cry in the back of his throat, swung around to face Jehan, who had backed away and was pushing himself against the windowsill, searching for an escape. Frollo rushed at him, seized his arm and a fistful of his hair, and flung him to the ground. Jehan tried to scramble to his feet, but Frollo caught him by the collar, and, cursing, began to slap him repeatedly across the face, each blow increasing in violence.

"Spoiled little—"_ Slap! _"I never should have—"_ Slap! _"—gypsy girl!"_ Slap!_

Esmeralda peered out through her fingers and watched as Jehan, frightened, still protesting, fought to shield himself from his brother's blows. Frollo yanked Jehan off the ground by his collar and hair, dragged him to the middle of the room, and pounded him, face down, against the desk.

'The key!" Frollo said, roughly clapping his hands over Jehan's body. "Where is it, wretch? Where, damn you?"

"Pocket!" Jehan said, fumbling for his pockets. "In my pocket!"

"Where? Where? Damn you, it doesn't matter!" Frollo, past all control, kicked at his chair, which skidded across the floor on one leg and slammed against the far wall. "I want you out of here _now_! I can't bear the sight of you!"

Before Jehan could respond, he was yanked upright and dragged to the door, which Frollo unlocked and threw open so violently that it crashed deafeningly against the wall. With both hands, Frollo flung Jehan to the floor outside.

"Get out of my sight!" he said. "Never come back! If you return, I'll kill you!"

Through a crack in the vibrating door hinges, Esmeralda could see Jehan, bent and bleeding upon the cold stones, raise his hands in a silent appeal to his brother.

Frollo slammed the door with all his strength. When the final echoes faded, the room became palpably silent. Esmeralda dipped her head, dropped her eyes to the ground; her lips curled into a predatory smile.

"Young fool," she said to herself.


	10. Chapter 10

_In which Esmeralda dances._

10.

Claude Frollo paced the floor of his chamber. With ragged breath, he cursed the day he had set eyes on Jehan; he strode back and forth across the cold floor, shouting now, gesticulating, clutching at his sacred garments, ripping his stole.

Esmeralda, a smile on her lips, observed him for a while. Then she rose from the couch and walked over to stand directly in his path, forcing him to stop abruptly.

"Do you curse the day you set eyes on _me_, priest?" she said.

Taken aback, Frollo avoided her great eyes. He brought a hand up to shade his brow, then drew it down to his chin. He forced himself to meet Esmeralda's eyes, but trembled so violently when he gazed into those depths of darkness and fire that he quickly glanced away from her again.

"You have ruined my relationship with my brother," he said. "I lost my head over you, yes, and now I've lost _him._" He stared at the door.

Esmeralda took a step towards him, but Frollo jerked back and met her eyes with a bitter expression. "You've ruined it," he said, then lowered his gaze to the floor. "You've ruined me."

Esmeralda's mouth took on a shape somewhere between a smile and a pout. How very dramatic the priest was! He had, only moments ago, beaten his brother about the face and body, thrust him hard against the stone walls of his chamber, and then thrown him out on his ear. Yet now he was blaming _her_, his captive, for the situation! It was hardly what any gypsy would call fair.

"Poor priest," she murmured, and reached out to stroke the side of his face with her fingertips. Frollo jumped at her touch, numbly astonished, his mind still swirling with such stores of emotion he could barely process what she was doing. But, as always, his body reacted to her: his pulse pounded, his heart jumped, and his breath escalated into shallow sips of air.

Esmeralda made a growling sound in her throat. She moved her fingers down towards his chin, began to circle his lips. Frollo sucked in his breath, then caught her hand and half-heartedly pulled it away. "Don't," he said, huskily, his eyes half closed. "I cannot think."

Esmeralda smiled. "And you _can _think when I am not touching you?" she said.

Frollo hissed and threw her hand away as if it were suddenly made of fire. He snapped his indignant eyes onto hers with a formidable expression that would have frightened anyone else.

"You didn't answer my question, priest," said Esmeralda. "Do you curse the day you saw _me_?"

"Yes! Yes! Damn you, I _do_ curse it!" said Frollo, his brow drawing down over his raging eyes. "You have taken _everything_ from me: my peace, my faith, now my brother…" His eyes flew towards the ceiling, and he drew in a shaky breath. "My heart…my soul…" He broke off, his voice strangling as his eyes fell to the floor.

"…Your heart, your soul?" Esmeralda leaned closer, her voice sweet and soft.

Frollo's body stiffened at the slight change in the relation of their bodies to one another; his eyes started to glide, slowly, up over her form: green skirt, ragged blouse, golden skin, wild hair, smiling little mouth, dangerous eyes.

Esmeralda saw a tiny pinpoint of fear in his glistening eyes. She reached out again through the electrically-charged air and stroked the embroidery on his purple stole. Frollo's chest rose and fell. Esmeralda opened her mouth and dipped her head, watched him from beneath her winged black lashes. She took one of his hands in her own. How cold it was! She raised it to her lips and, hearing him try not to groan, blew hot breath onto his fingers. She rubbed his hand between her own, warming it. Her black eyes observed his every change of his facial expression as it flew from fear to confusion, then from tenderness to arousal.

"Do you love me still?" she whispered, her lips now hovering above his palm, her gaze centered at him through her lashes. Frollo sucked in his breath and trembled in every limb, his lids lowered halfway over his eyes. He seemed to be trying to speak, his mouth forming words, but there was no sound.

"Tell me," Esmeralda said in a silky, smiling whisper.

She searched his stricken face, then lowered her lips onto his palm, saw his eyes snap there to drink in the sight. She opened her lips and lightly ran her tongue over his palm's heart line. Frollo's face registered agony; he jerked his head away as if the sight was too erotic for him to bear. Esmeralda giggled against his hand, and Frollo's head fell slowly back, his mouth open, his breath hissing out. He seemed to be trying to remain as still as possible, for fear of scaring her away. But with his free hand he grabbed at the surplice over his heart, and pressed it under his fingers.

Esmeralda pulled Frollo by the hand and led him to the desk, where she put four fingers upon his chest and pushed him backwards to sit-lean against it. He allowed himself to be led and pushed, stared numbly at the gypsy's eyes and mouth, breathing through his parted lips as she began anew to rub her voluptuous mouth against his palm.

"I…I..." Frollo said, trying to catch his breath, which had gotten well away from him. Esmeralda began to nibble on his fingers with her lips and teeth, very gently, which made him groan again. He was unable to tear his gaze from the sight.

Esmeralda giggled. "You…you…?" She smiled her lips against his wrist, felt the desperate pulse pounding there.

Frollo's eyes flashed at her mocking tone; but as he drew himself up, newly determined to be heard, she took his thumb into her soft mouth and sucked at it. Frollo's eyelids fell and his mouth dropped open. Esmeralda laughed in earnest; and Frollo realized that she was laughing at him. But it was worth it to have her close, and by her own choice—_she'd _come to_ him_! He'd do anything to keep her near him like this, become any kind of fool for her, just as long as she never stopped what she was doing; just as long as she never left him.

Esmeralda let go of his shaking hand, which for a few moments he kept suspended in the air where she had been caressing it. Seeing his face fall, she chuckled. "Come, priest, don't be sad." She stared up into his eyes with her flickering, mesmerizing gaze, put her hand into the pocket of her green dancing-skirt, and withdrew a pair of castanets.

"I will dance for you," she said. "Would you like that, mournful one? I do not have my _peineta _or _mantilla_, but I'll have to make do."

Before Frollo could manage an answer, Esmeralda began to trill her castanets, which produced a powerful, hypnotic sound that vibrated all through the chamber and through every sinew of Frollo's body. She began her dance by facing him, her hands over her groin, her head down, staring up into Frollo's eyes through her lashes. Slowly, with that alarming rhythmic sound emanating from her active hands, she raised her arms until they buoyed gracefully over head, her chin up, her face slightly turned away from him, but still staring obliquely into Frollo's eyes. Her face was set, her eyes hard and serious, her mouth slightly open, frowning, showing her little teeth. There was power in her rigid body, permanent as an oak in its stance, despite the delicate position of her arms over her floating black hair.

Esmeralda began to stamp her feet and move in a small, slow circle, her wrists gyrating above her head and the magical, driving castanet sound filling the room. To Frollo's dismay, she began to sing as an accompaniment--an almost-wailing, native song that made her seem angry and vengeful, like a nature spirit come to claim Frollo's soul. She glared at him with a yellow light in her eyes, her hands fluttering like doves around her head, her breast, her waist. Her feet stamped the floor so forcefully that Frollo feared she would injure them; her leg kicked out in an arc and her body followed it around in an impossibly slow circle; she gathered up her skirts with one hand and leaned back in a reverse _arabesque_, her head the last to tilt back, her eyes still fixed onto his.

She sang:

_Tiriti tran tran tran tran  
Tarata tran tran tran_

_I'm feeling so confused  
Oh, love of my life_

_And I go over the walls  
Which lead to your doors_

_When she looks at me, I cry  
When she looks at me, I cry_

_When she walks around  
Cinnamon and roses fall to the ground_

Frollo watched her, his chest heaving, emotion swelling in his depths. He feared her enchantments now more than ever; and he loved her, god, how much! He loved to madness the tiny frame, resilient as a tulip stem, so firm now with the precision of her movements and her serious gaze; he loved the strident singing, the drone-like vibration of her castanets. Most of all, he loved her stamping feet, the determination of those steps, the otherworldly power of her.

During her dance, Esmeralda rarely broke their eye contact. As she moved closer to him, stamping hard, reaching toward him with a gyrating, birdlike hand, the expression in her pagan eyes gave Frollo almost unbearable pain. He thanked god for the desk that supported him; and he feared for his breath, soon to be lost forever in the emotion he felt for her. As she lowered her gaze to follow her descending, fluttering hands, then raised her flashing eyes again to glare into his, Frollo's heart fell one last time. His besotted smile erupted into laughter. He reached out for her, but his knees felt weak and then buckled; and his laughter turned to weeping. He clutched onto her and sunk down, burying his face in her skirt.

"Let me go! Please, please, let me go!" he said.

Esmeralda dropped her castanets and fell to her knees. She wiped the tears from Frollo's cheeks, murmuring, making him wince at her tenderness. She caressed his face with her long fingers, kissed his mouth with her poppy-colored lips. Frollo trembled; his limbs vibrated so intensely that he thought he must be emitting a frequency, an excruciating, erotic hum. He whispered between her kisses; his emotions whirled over him like the great heavy ocean: like that unassailable force of nature that he had struggled his entire life to repress, and which was now being called forth by this mermaid, bidding him to drown in her murky water.

Her dance, her tenderness had been so unexpected that Frollo had no defense ready, no course of action that he could latch onto in the midst of this tumbling, delicious whirlwind. And she was making him more helpless by the second, with her kisses, her plangent saucer-eyes that made him tremble with love and awe, her sighs and her moans. She was moaning, kissing him! Frollo, crushed by the weight of his emotion, buried his shaking hands in her hair, and, like most mermaid-encounterers before him, simply let himself drown.

Esmeralda took his hand and led him, shaky-kneed, to the couch. Frollo, hypnotized, reclined, feeling as if he was floating backwards into a fairy-ring of swirling, perfumed mist. With his eyes riveted to her deep, sleepy-lidded gaze, one hand on his burning forehead and the other clutching the side of the couch, one foot still on the floor, Frollo watched, open-mouthed, as she crawled on top of him.

The world he had known ceased to exist; he no longer knew or cared who he was. He had never had the faith in his prayers to hope that she would one day be doing these very things—stroking the sides of his face while she pressed her full length onto him, her mouth everywhere at once, her sudden tenderness driving a stake into his chest, causing him to bleed inwardly. He tried many times to say her name; but he couldn't manage a sound that sacred. All Frollo could utter, beyond ragged moans, was the name of his god, as the gypsy writhed on top of him with that nymph's body, stared into his eyes, and whispered _his_ name—oh, he would certainly die at that! She kissed the sides of his neck, his open mouth, controlling the kisses —and him—entirely, teaching him to use his tongue to heighten the pleasure, as if it needed heightening.

And now she was inviting him to kiss _her_ neck, and _her _shoulders, and all those parts of her body that had kept him awake through endless nights, tortured by the visions of her form, her golden skin, all those dancing, bruising images of her that burned as if he'd stared at the sun too long, until his yearning skirted madness. Frollo felt his soul spinning, hurtling toward perdition; but his former self was gone too far from this holy pleasure to have any effect on his actions.

So he ran his mouth over every beloved inch of the gypsy's body; and he rubbed himself against her—and, finally, _mon dieu_, inside her—because he could no longer bear the pleasure of being able to touch her without censure, of having her look at him this way.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_5-30-2009_

_Life's gotten in the way of my finishing this little story, but, rest assured, I know what will happen; and I've begun to put pen to paper to write the next chapters. _

_Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to write to me. Thanks for your kind words and camaraderie. _

_If you have issues with sex, or are judgmental about which Notre Dame de Paris characters __(yes, the book) __you consider appropriate for others to play with__, well, probably better to keep moving._

**Libellule007:** Thank you for your review of this chapter. To answer your question about expected length, I had an original idea for this story, and if it continues to go more or less as planned (which stories and characters sometimes refuse to do), I can foresee only a few more chapters. I'd like to round the story off with an ending that makes sense and that manages to keep the tension going at the same level throughout.

I do enjoy writing about the characters of Frollo and (my version of) Esmeralda, however. So I may continue this general direction with another story, possibly introducing Gringoire, since he's also a fun, interesting character. I like characters that play interestingly with other characters. They don't necessarily have to "behave", just be interesting. ;)

In the past, my work life interfered in my finishing this story, but hopefully now I'll be able to tie it up more quickly. Not that I'm rushing anything.

* * *

11.

Claude Frollo opened his eyes. The room was pierced by a shaft of light that angled down on the gypsy girl. Specks of dust floated around her floating hair. She was lying on her side, her head on his chest, her half-nude body against him. The things they did, the things she had done to him, came back in a rush of images and sounds. Frollo knew all this had sealed his seat in the lowest circle of Hell—reserved for those who betray God—but his only concern was that Esmeralda didn't wake up just yet. He wanted to watch her sleep, to revel a while longer in the conviction that she must now love him.

As he observed her, the room grew very warm; he felt dizzying happiness. Esmeralda's eyes darted, quick as her dance, under her shaded eyelids. The room was still and, except for Frollo's heavy breath, silent.

Finally, Esmeralda moved. Her eyes opened; her lips crawled into a slow, mischievous smile. Frollo wanted those lips on him again. He gazed into her eyes for as long as he could endure it. Then he burrowed his hand into her hair and pulled her head toward him. She resisted. He pulled harder.

"Kiss me," he said.

She eyed him for a few moments, then rose herself on all fours and crawled up his body, straddling him between her legs, her loose skirts billowing around her hips. She lowered her breasts close to his lips, making him gasp, then bent her head so he could gaze into her eyes, now just inches away. Her close, dark eyes were too much for Frollo; he trembled, thankful he was lying down, and pulled her head closer to kiss her. When their mouths met, he moaned. The gypsy chuckled and wiggled her hips.

"You're ready again, priest," she said.

"'Claude'!" Frollo said, pressing himself against her in agony.

"I like calling you 'priest'," said Esmeralda.

She reached down and guided him inside her. Frollo's eyes and head rolled back; he never wanted to be anywhere else from this moment forward. Esmeralda stared into his eyes, began to undulate around him. Frollo, overwhelmed, could only mewl in pleasure and grasp at her hair. Their faces were so close that all he could see was the shiny blackness of her eyes; he could feel her breath coming in little gasps against his lips. He was surrounded by a miasma of pleasure so driving and intense it was almost painful. As he climaxed, totally lost in her, he stared with fear and awe into the depths of her dark eyes.

"You don't feel like a priest inside me," Esmeralda said afterward, as she disengaged their bodies and lay down next to him.

Frollo, drunken, gasping, winced inwardly at the implication of her words--that she'd had other men as a basis for comparison. But his dismay at being physically separated from her overthrew his jealousy, and he reached out to touch her. She propped her head up on her hands and smiled elfishly. When their eyes met, Frollo again felt his heart turn over. He felt tears starting to well up behind his eyes, and he struggled, blinking, to remain composed. Esmeralda saw his struggle, observed it closely, but made no comment, nor changed her calm, smiling expression. Frollo gazed into the dark eyes that now had an erotic connotation they hadn't had just hours before.

"I love you so much," he said, and his voice shook. "I couldn't endure being in this cold place without you. Better yet, we should run away together, build a new life."

Esmeralda started, but her smile remained. "Run away?" She said. "Where would we go?"

"To the mountains, to another city, to another country altogether, it hardly matters," said Frollo. "I was never meant to live the life of a priest. I was made for you, to watch you dance and hear you sing." He glanced around the room, as if addressing the outside world. "I am well-educated; I could get a teaching post, perhaps. My family had some wealth and standing." His eyes locked onto hers again, and his face softened. "You will never want for anything."

Esmeralda shifted on the couch. She looked toward the back wall, examined the scrawls there for a long while, considered his words.

"So you want to marry me, is that it?" she said.

Frollo rushed forward, threw his arms around her, and buried his face into her hair.

"Yes, marry me, my nymph, my exquis---"

Esmeralda snorted and shrugged off his mouth. "Where is the ring, sir?" she said playfully. "You can't ask for a woman's hand without a ring! I expect this to be done with all due respect."

Frollo bit her shoulder, then jumped up, rummaged among his garments. With a cry of satisfaction, he drew his hand out of a deep pocket. In his palm, Esmeralda saw the little velvet pouch.

"See now, _ma sirène_," Frollo said. "I will have your ring made with any gem you select." He lifted the velvet bag and delicately untied it with his other hand. Then he shook the contents-- flashes of colored light, clinking sounds--onto the couch. Esmeralda, gasping, her eyes shining as brightly as the chunky jewels themselves, gazed at the pile of winking colors between them. She ran her hand lightly over each shape, then plucked out a hefty, square-shaped gem of incandescent green.

"Ah, my fairy," said Frollo. "You've found your namesake."

The emerald, heavy and sparkling in the gypsy's hand, cast a verdant, acidic light on everything around it. The color was perfect, the gem barely marbled with _jardin_. It was a potent quasar of green, brilliant as the all-seeing eye of a Hindu god.

"It's so beautiful," said Esmeralda, turning it to catch the light.

To her delight, Frollo proudly showed her the other gems, which included a Burmese ruby the color of Esmeralda's lips and tongue, he said, and almost as mesmerizing; a velvety Kashmir sapphire the color of the ocean where it's so deep only the mermaids can swim; and a crystalline aquamarine, large and innocent as an egg in a bird's nest.

"And what of the gold for the ring?" said Esmeralda. "Where will that come from?"

"From _Rheingold_, my Rhinemaiden," said Frollo, deliriously happy, feeling a power and satisfaction he never thought possible, as he watched the woman he worshipped playing with the jewels for the ring he would give her in marriage. Marriage!

"For my bride's ring," he said, "I will have Odin deliver the gold to me himself."

Esmeralda looked up from the jewels and grinned. "How fanciful you are!"

"Fanciful?" said Frollo. "Do you doubt I can summon the king of the gods?"

She laughed, then scooped the gems into her cupped palms and shook them a little, watched them dance. "They're all so beautiful! It's so difficult to choose just one!"

The jewels cast reflections into the gypsy's eyes and across her golden skin. Fingers of colored light--green, red, cobalt blue--caressed her lips, shadowed her eyelids, buried themselves in her hair. Frollo envied them.

"Their beauty pales before yours," he said.

Esmeralda's mosaic eyes slid toward him. "Are they valuable?"

"Yes, the finest it's possible to obtain," Frollo said. "Burma produces the most superlative rubies, rarest of the rare, as Kashmir does sapphires. The emerald and aquamarine are of equal quality, and they come from very far away." He gently pushed a serpent-like strand of black hair from the gypsy's shoulder. Then, unable to keep physically away from her for long, he leaned over and rubbed his lips against her skin.

"And just how did you "obtain" them?" said Esmeralda.

Frollo chuckled onto her neck. "You are full of questions, my sparrow. I acquired them over the years, one here, another there. I come into contact with some rather powerful people."

Esmeralda, temporarily satisfied, dropped her eyes to re-examine the sparkling jewels still dancing in her palms. She loved the icy little clinking sounds they made when they rolled into each other, their seductive colors, the perfection of their facets.

Frollo noticed her admiration.

"You are my jewel, Esmeralda," he said.


End file.
